


new tattoos

by sky_reid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Sexting, Subspace, Tattoos, also check the notes at the beginning of every chapter for warnings, but like vaguely, hmmmm what else is there, honestly what did you expect, i'll add tags as i add chapters, listen louis tomlinson got a tattoo on his arse, pain kink like whoa, the only thing i'll ever write about again is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis gets a new tattoo. and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	new tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> louis tomlinson gets a tramp stamp and i get a heart attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (warnings; vaguely spoilery if that exists in porn) louis gets off in the toilet at the studio which is in a way public i suppose; harry and louis are on difference continents for this chapter, so although harry stays on the line and makes sure louis is alright he's not physically present for any kind of aftercare

Louis buries his face in his arms and takes a few deep breaths. The buzz of the machine already has his belly swirling in anticipation. Erik’s gloved thumb digs in beneath the stencil, sinking almost painfully into the sensitive flesh just above his arsecheek. “You ready?” he asks. Louis just nods. He doesn’t trust himself not to blurt out just how much he can’t wait for it to start. He clenches his arsecheeks unintentionally, balls his hands into fists, every muscle in his body tightening as he waits for the first touch of needle to his skin. God, he’s half-hard already.

 

It should maybe be awkward, always is, a bit, when someone’s there with him and he’s still clear-headed enough that he can think. But from the first line, from the moment he feels the burn of skin breaking, it’s like he’s in a completely different world, a plane of existence away from the prying eyes and outside of the drawn-out lies. He imagines he can feel the ink seeping into his skin, the fire running through his veins, the pain settling into his body like a drug. He barely contains a moan as Erik starts on the first outline. He props himself up on his elbows and lifts his head, knowing he can’t afford to drift off completely. He just hopes everyone thinks the blown eyes and flushed cheeks are because he can’t handle pain well. He grips his phone in his hand like an anchor, the illusion of closeness to Harry enough to keep him calm even as he walks the fine line between holding on and needing to be taken care of.

 

It’s hard to focus or even notice what everyone around him is saying and doing when he already feels like he’s floating. His vision is blurry and everything sounds muffled, distant, as if he’s moving underwater while the rest of the world keeps spinning aboveground. The only thing that feels right is the stinging pain; his body sings with it, a clear sharp note that has him sweating lightly, biting his lip and fighting the urge to reach down and adjust his hardening cock. He tries not to focus on it, tries not to think about how good it feels, because if he does there is no way he won’t get lost in it. It’s there though, this unavoidable ache spreading through him like a tidal wave, clinging to him like a fog and he can’t not get a little drunk on it. He feels like his every nerve is alight with a pleasant burn and he wants more, wants harder, doesn’t ever want it to stop.

 

*

 

He’s grateful for the few minutes they let him have just lying on his front, gathering his thoughts and waiting for his vision to stop swimming and his head to clear a bit. He can feel the burn where the new tattoo sits, the throb in his fingers, the itch on his arm. Even after they’re all done, he’s still struggling to focus on anything but the delicious sting of it. When he stands up the shop swims a little around him. He’s lucky everyone else is involved in a loud conversation and Erik is the only one who notices. He extends a hand towards Louis, but Louis shakes it off, points to the bathroom quickly. They’ll probably think he’s going to be sick, that he has an arm full of tattoos and has yet to learn how to deal with the pain, and he honestly couldn’t care less, he needs to—

 

As soon as the door is closed behind him he exhales a long, noisy breath. Fuck, it _burns_ and it burns so _good_ and he knows he can’t but he wants to touch, to scratch, to make it hurt _more_. He pushes his jeans down to his mid-thighs not bothering to undo them first; he’d gone soft while getting the work done, body too overwhelmed to maintain an erection, but he’s already getting hard again when he wraps his hand around his cock. He feels the pull at the irritated skin, hisses at the slight twinge. It doesn’t take more than a few quick, dry strokes before he’s fully hard. He twists his wrist, rubs the palm of his hand over the dampening head of his cock. He catches a glimpse of the black lines on his fingers and feels heat pooling in his belly.

 

The stretch of injured skin adds to the pleasure and serves as a good reminder of where he is, of the fact that any second now someone could open the door and find him like this, desperate from a handful of strokes and high on pain, this rich and powerful celebrity brought near literally to his knees by a needle and some ink. Still, he knows better than to risk getting come on a new tattoo, so he switches hands, grabs at the sink hard enough to feel the burn in his fingers and pulls on his cock with his other hand.

 

He doesn’t have a lot of time before someone comes looking for him, so he doesn’t bother with finesse. His hand moves over his cock so fast the tattoos on his arm look blurry; he keeps his strokes focused around the sensitive head, circles it with his thumb pushed into the glove of his foreskin. Sticky precome smears over his hand and the smell of sweat and sex fills his nostrils. He keeps his head down, breathes harshly into his chest, barely containing the moans that threaten to spill out of his chest. He uses every trick he knows to make it quick, rough with himself like he normally wouldn’t be, pressing a blunt nail into his slit and squeezing himself so every stroke brings a harsh burn.

 

The pain makes everything sharper, clearer, more urgent; it’s almost like he can feel every single little thing tenfold, from the cut of his tight jeans into the meat of his thighs to the scorching heat of his hand moving over his cock to the burn of broken skin. At the same time it makes all the edges fuzzy, blurs the lines between too much and not enough; he feels woozy and out of focus, like a photo zoomed in too far, feels like he’s floating, like he’s high, like he’s under. He can’t tell where the pain ends and pleasure begins, too tightly wound by both to even try to tell them apart.

 

He looks up at himself in the mirror above the sink, takes in the sweat dampening his fringe and making it stick to his forehead and temples, the bitten lips and blown pupils and cheeks aflame. He looks fucked out already, nothing but his own hand and a little pain making him soar higher than drugs; it’s easy to imagine Harry behind him, big hands squeezing his arse, pulling on his sore skin, thick cock stretching him wide open, red bruises blooming on his hips. The tattoo is low enough on his back that it almost feels like the tenderness after a good spanking. He falls forward again, rests his burning forehead against the cool sink and lets himself be overwhelmed, if only for a moment. He can almost _hear_ the harsh slap of Harry’s hand against skin, almost _feel_ the irritation of Harry’s hips slamming into the already raw tenderness his hands leave behind, almost _see_ himself bent over and begging in a bathroom in a tattoo shop. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, muffling his groans as he comes, hand cupped around the head of his cock to catch everything.

 

He’s still panting when there’s a knock at the door, Erik’s deep voice coming through. “You okay in there?”

 

Louis would laugh if he had the breath for it. Instead he just says, “Yeah, I’ll be out in a second.” His voice is shot to hell, rough and strained and breathy; there is no way nobody will notice, no way someone won’t pick up on it, no way people won’t be talking about how easy he is for it. A pleasant shiver runs through him at the thought alone.

 

He brings his hand up to his mouth to lick the come off, his shaky fingers clumsily missing and smearing the stickiness over his lips and chin. He sucks everything off his fingers, but leaves the mess around his mouth untouched as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. It takes him a bit to find a position where all the new ink is visible with his arse to the mirror and his back arched; it’s a bit blurry and unclear, but the new tattoos are obvious and the mess around his mouth unmistakeable. He knows Harry will take one look at the photo and know.

 

He snaps a few photos and sends them through with the caption _got something for u_ before turning off his phone and pulling up his jeans.

 

*

 

He’s smiling dopily as Erik cleans him up, wiping the gross mess of fluids from the tattoos and covering them with the thick ointment that smells of coconut. The rough drag of his fingers over the sore skin is soothing, much as every touch sends a sharp jolt of arousal through Louis, making his spent cock twitch in his jeans.

 

*

 

He doesn’t need to drink to get drunk tonight. He’s buzzed already before he even leaves the tattoo shop, flying high on endorphins and adrenaline, on the throbbing ache in his lower back and arm. He doesn’t need to show off the new tattoos to be reminded that they’re there. He still does it though, downs shot after shot pulls his shirt up for people he’s never seen before until he knows nothing but the burn in his muscles and the burn of his skin and the burn down his throat and the burn of eyes on his skin and he’s never felt better.

 

*

 

He only turns his phone on when he’s back at the hotel and has already cleaned and hydrated the tattoos. He’s lying on his belly in the soft bed, naked and warm from his shower, head still filled with clouds as he ignores dozens of notification in search of the one reaction that matters right now.

 

Harry’s sent him over fifty texts, ranging from confusion and incoherent screaming to absolute filth to sweet words that make Louis’ chest tight. His last messages is dated to mere minutes earlier and it only says _call me_. It’s so late it’s early in London by now, but Louis still dials without a second thought. Harry answers on the third ring.

 

 _“Lou?”_ he rasps over the static, voice incredibly slow and deep. It washes over Louis, making his skin tingle. He can practically taste the bitter tang of exhaustion that’s making Harry’s tongue thick, his vowels slow and lazy.

 

“Hey, love,” he replies. His own voice rings clear in the silence, filling every corner of the room even though it feels like a whisper.

 

_“How are you?”_

 

Louis puts a hand over his mouth and lets out a soft giggle. The adrenaline’s worn off and the alcohol is settling at the bottom of his belly, warming him from the inside out. His body feels heavy, his movements sluggish. His thoughts are foggy, almost distant. Everything feels fuzzy and unclear in the best way.

 

The fond smile carries in Harry’s tone when he says, _“That good, huh?”_

 

“Mmm,” Louis hums, burrowing into the soft pillow under his head. His lower back throbs, a constant source of both pain and pleasure; he’s been half a breath away from getting hard all night, alcohol probably the only thinking stopping him. He shifts against the sheets now, free from the restrictions of clothing and company. Harry’s voice is rough the way it gets when he’s had his throat fucked, the way it is when he goes down on Louis, the way it is when he holds Louis down and fucks him so hard he forgets how to speak. Louis squirms, rubbing his hardening cock against the soft sheets.

 

 _“Yeah, I bet it feels good,”_ Harry drawls. _“Burns by now, doesn’t it? Feels like somebody brought an open flame too close to you, hot and prickling and impossible to ignore.”_ Louis whines into the pillow, fucking into the mattress with quick, shallow thrusts. Harry’s words burrow under his skin; they feel like fuel to the fire licking at his skin. He clenches his hands into fists at the side of the pillow _. “You want to touch don’t you?”_ Harry asks. Louis can practically hear him smirking when he grunts. _“Do you want to soothe it? Wash the ink again and put ointment on it? Or do you want to make it worse? Poke it and prod it and scratch at it?”_ Louis can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck as his hips find a steady rhythm, his hard cock trapped between his lower belly and the bed. His fingers flex in the pillowcase, itching for something to do, as if Harry’s suggestion alone is enough to give them a mind of their own. _“Answer.”_

 

It’s such a minor change, veiled by the tired drip of Harry’s words, that it’s almost imperceptible; Louis knows he wouldn’t notice it if he weren’t so intimately familiar with every cadence and note of Harry’s considerable range. He gasps when he hears it, the slightest shift in tone, the demanding note behind the request, the confidence that boosts it, back arching and hips fucking forward faster. The tingling, itching burn of his new tattoos seems to increase with every second he spends forced to think about it. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly, “don’t know what I want to do.”

 

_“Are you touching yourself?”_

 

Louis’ grip on the pillow tightens, the pull of injured skin sending a zing of pleasure down his spine. He grunts in response, tongue too thick with pleasure and alcohol to form words. The friction warms the bed and his skin, but the sheets are soft on his sensitive cock when he keeps rutting against the bed. He’s not sure if the haze in his mind is from pleasure or pain.

 

 _“You like it, don’t you? How it’s almost like you can still feel the needle gliding over your skin even when you’re not doing anything?”_ Louis sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he whines. He’s sure his cheeks are burning up, sure the muscles in his thighs are shaking, but his whole body already feels like a raw, exposed nerve and he’s too overwhelmed for any of it to make much of a difference. And then Harry asks, calm and measured, _“Tell me, do you like it more or less than showing half the population of Chicago what is_ mine _?”_

 

Louis freezes, a chill suddenly washing over him. “’m sorry,” he slurs weakly.

 

 _“How many people have seen your new tattoo, Louis, hmm? How many people have you shown before I got to see?”_ Harry asks, words still slow and lazy but with an edge of harshness now.

 

Louis whines into the pillow. “Sorry, ‘m sorry,” he repeats.

 

 _“You should be,”_ Harry agrees. _“That wasn’t very nice. Maybe you should be punished. Would that teach you?”_ Louis sucks in a breath and holds it, body unnaturally still as he waits. His muscles are tense all over and he can feel the burn in them, feel the tickle inside his belly, the tingling down his spine; his cock blurts more precome as everything inside him stills in anticipation of Harry’s next words. _“You want to know what I’d do to you if I were there?”_

 

“Please,” Louis breathes, barely daring to do as much.

 

_“I’d put you over my knee—“_

 

“Oh, God,” Louis moans, suddenly melting into the bed. The tattoo above his arse throbs as if in sympathy.

 

_“—spread my legs so you can’t rub off on my thighs while I touch you. I’d finger you first, get my fingers wet with the ointment you always spread around too much. And I’d touch as close as possible too, right up against the line where your skin is red and sore. You’d like that wouldn’t you?”_

 

Louis can’t do much more than hum a high-pitched affirmative sound, face buried in the pillow and hips rolling in tight little circles. A drop of sweat tickles him where it’s running down the curve of his spine; he feels like he’s on fire again, burning up as he imagines the picture Harry is painting. He can almost feel the ghost of a touch to the inflamed skin around his tattoo, the rough pads of Harry’s fingers, his blunt nails scratching lightly. He moans brokenly into the pillow and grinds his cock against the bed harder.

 

 _“Yeah, I thought so,”_ Harry says. His voice is still steady, calm, words dragged-out and slow; he sounds entirely unaffected by the whole situation and that just gets Louis harder, more desperate, more humiliatingly turned on. _“It wouldn’t be as slick as you’re used to, would it? Enough that it doesn’t hurt, but not so much that it doesn’t stretch and burn. You’d barely feel it with the tattoos burning you as they are.”_

 

Louis ruts against the bed faster, clenching his hole on nothing as if expecting Harry’s fingers to sink into it. Every twist of his hips makes the dull ache in his lower back flare up and he can’t get enough of it, can’t stop moving, can’t stop chasing after that one second when all he can feel is the bright hot pain that makes his heart stutter and his cock twitch. He’s sweating and panting, muscles burning from the strain; he can feel tears prickling in his eyes, overwhelmed with the conflicting sensations coursing through him.

 

_“It wouldn’t matter anyway, because that part wouldn’t be for you. That’d be just to get you nice and open so I can fuck you later.”_

 

The sharp inhale that follows the sentence is the first indication that Harry is at all affected. It’s enough though, enough for images to flash through Louis’ mind – Harry on his back, phone to his ear and one of his elegant hands pulling on his cock, hard and red and shiny wet at the tip, muscles in his belly and thighs twitching as he imagines the same things Louis does. Louis shivers all over. He fucks against the bed almost mindlessly now, too hazy to have any control over how he’s doing it. It’s starting to be too much now, chafing and rough with nothing but his sweat and precome to ease the touch of cotton to his sensitive skin, but he can’t stop, driven by heat and need. The pain makes it that much better, like an additional spice in an already good meal, like that last added aroma that makes a scent perfect.

 

 _“And then,”_ Harry says, voice deeper than mere seconds ago, the slight strain in it enough to make Louis whimper, _“I’d spank you._ That _you would feel. I’d start out slow, make you count out ten light ones just so I can watch your arse move. I’d get it a little pink before really starting. You’d be squirming by then, apologising and begging and leaking all over the floor.”_ Louis is holding onto the pillow under his head so hard that his fingers are starting to cramp. Harry sounds out of breath when he continues. _“And only when you’re promising to be good I’d really give it to you. I’d spank you so hard your whole arse would be raw; it would hurt, but then you like that, don’t you?”_ Louis lets out a high-pitched whine, rutting against the bed so fast the frame of it shakes. He’s close, he’s _so_ close, and he _needs_ to come, needs it to end, to stop almost as much as he needs it to last forever. _“I’d keep going until you come, sobbing into my thigh, unsure of where one pain ends and the other begins. Probably wouldn’t stop then either.”_

 

Louis comes with a sharp inhale; he keeps grinding against the sheets while he rides it out, feeling them get wetter and wetter as come seeps into them. For a few blissful moments all he knows is release – he forgets to move, forgets to feel, forgets to _breathe_ , caught up in the intensity of relief; he doesn’t see anything but the stars behind his eyelids, doesn’t hear anything beyond the rush of blood in his ears, doesn’t know anything but the pure ecstasy that washes over him.

 

When it’s all over he’s left panting into a pillow wet with sweat and tears and lying on sheets soaked in his come, but he barely registers any of it. As his body twitches with aftershocks and exhaustion and the sweat cools on his overheated skin, he still feels like he’s flying high, soaring through a haze of pleasure in his head. Before the strange disconnect between his mind and his body can become uncomfortable, he starts to notice that even as the excess heat leaches out of him, the tingling patches around his tattoos remain, like burning stamps assuring him that he’s still there.

 

Harry’s gentle voice, marred by static, brings him slowly back to awareness. He doesn’t really make out any words before he hears a familiar phrase. _“Are you alright, love?”_

 

He gropes for his phone blindly, squints his eyes so as not to be blinded as he turns the speaker off. “Yes,” he croaks when he brings the phone up to his ear. His voice barely sounds like his anymore, strained and broken as if he’d been the one talking this whole time. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m alright.”

 

_“Can you show me?”_

Louis’ thoughts feel fuzzy, present but unreachable. He moves sluggishly, as if fighting a force greater than air, as he props himself up and snaps a photo of the wet sheets, the mess on his belly, his soft cock. He falls back down as soon as he sends it. His body doesn’t feel physical, malleable like liquid and ethereal like gas. He stays in the place between dream and reality, only aware of the world around him as if seeing it through a shimmering mist, as he lays his head on the pillow and listens to Harry’s breathing speed up on the other end.

 

He gradually reacquaints himself with his own physicality, his awareness spreading slowly from the throbbing ache in his skin to the rest of his body, the strain in his muscles, the tackiness of dry sweat on his back, the sticky come on his tummy, the rough drag of sheets against his oversensitive cock. He squirms out of the wet spot and melts into the bed.

 

Hearing Harry’s harsh breaths and quiet grunts on the other end of the line is weirdly comforting, makes him feel less alone. He thumbs gently over the side of his fingers, careful not to touch the new tattoos, but close enough that he almost is. He can’t wait for them to heal, can’t wait to see his hand in Harry’s like this, to feel his thumb tracing gently over the lines, to watch the numbers disappear between his lips, between his cheeks and into the inviting clench of his body. He only realises he’s been speaking out loud when he hears Harry come with a loud moan.

 

He lies there waiting for Harry to catch his breath and say something. The room is heated, but he’s starting to feel cold on a level that isn’t just purely physical. He holds the phone closer as if it will somehow bring Harry closer too.

 

 _“Lou?”_ Harry finally asks, his voice quiet and soft in Louis’ ear. It spreads through Louis like the warmth that comes with the first sip of tea on a cold morning, soothing him and sending him floating again while simultaneously keeping him tethered. He smiles to the empty room.

 

“Yeah?”

 

_“Are you alright?”_

 

“Mmhm,” Louis hums.

 

 _“You sure? You wanna go clean up before you fall asleep?”_ Louis just grunts tiredly. He’ll probably hate himself when he wakes up in the morning, but he doesn’t think he can make his legs work enough to carry him to the bathroom. Not only is he knackered but he also feels like his thoughts are too scattered and muddled for him to focus enough on actually getting himself upright and walking and his body feels too heavy to move without effort. _“Okay, love. Are your hands clean at least? Got your ointment somewhere you can reach it?”_

“Yeah,” Louis confirms. He’s already drifting off, Harry’s voice the only thing he can really focus on at this point. He doesn’t usually like to talk when he’s like this, prefers to be held and cuddled, but that’s not an option right now and this is as close as he’s gonna get tonight. He lets silence fall between them for a few seconds until he can gather his words enough to form a sentence. “Do you like them?” he finally asks.

 

_“Yeah, babe, I love them. Can’t wait to see them properly.”_

Louis picks his phone up tiredly, fingers curling around it uncertainly. He feels like all the strength has left him; it’s difficult to even lift his phone and snap a photo without dropping it. The room is dark so the flash illuminates him unnaturally, leaving his skin ghostly pale, the bruises under his eyes darker, the raised, inflamed skin redder. Still, he sends the photo to Harry, this weird image that is half a selfie and half an unfocused picture of his sprawled out body.

 

Harry hums thoughtfully on the other end. _“Not gonna be cold?”_

“Heating’s on,” Louis mumbles sleepily. He puts the phone on the pillow next to his head as he settles back down. A part of him wants to stay awake, cling to the fuzzy, warm feeling in his head, to Harry’s voice, to the illusion of Harry being there, but his eyelids are already drooping.

 

 _“Alright. I’m glad you had fun today.”_ Louis hums weakly, too sleepy for any other kind of answer. _“I’ll call you later to check up on you, yeah? Can’t wait to have you back here.”_ Louis lets Harry’s voice wrap around him the way his body would if they were together. He falls asleep with Harry still on the line, listening to the languid rhythm of his breathing, the calming tone of his voice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come and scream with me about louis' arse and the tattoo above it [on tumblr](http://sky-reid.tumblr.com)


End file.
